


Scars Run Deep

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, M/M, Romance, hurt-comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-12
Updated: 2003-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 11:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/355982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex has many scars, both physical and emotional, but he may have finally found the person who can heal them - Clark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars Run Deep

## Scars Run Deep

by Wiccan Moonlight Faery

[]()

* * *

There are many things that people can assume about me, Lex Luthor. I, quite frankly, have heard all of these assumptions, and have found nearly all of them to be wrong. The few people that I let in close enough to get to know the real me know to avoid these assumptions because they know that I am the exact opposite of what most people would think of me. 

The first thing people assume is because I am rich, my life is perfect. Actually, people tend to think that about anybody with money. It's human nature to think that people that have more than you have a better life. I remember an old teacher I had in human behavior telling us that. And I remember that whole class starting to look at me a lot differently after that lesson. 

Maybe it was because the professor actually taught us something. Maybe he forced the class to see that my life was far from perfect and, in fact, people with money tend to be more depressed than poor people, not the other way around. That's because money corrupts people. It is not a man that has everything that is rich, but rather, a man that wants nothing. Maybe that made them realize why I was constantly getting into trouble and doing drugs and fucking everyone I could get my hands on. Because I _wasn't_ happy. 

Because the people that assume that my life is perfect didn't see my mother's tears after my baby brother died, nor my father's anger. They didn't see my mother's other tears that I did not understand at the time, until I learned of my father's constant betrayal of her. They didn't see my mother lying in a hospital bed, frail, weak, and dying. They didn't hear my father's constant talk of how much of a disappointment I am to the Luthor name, nor did they know that the words "I love you" had never been spoken to me from my father's lips. They didn't know of how every horrible word my father says tears me to pieces, each leaving a lasting scar. They didn't know how unfortunate it was to be born the son of Lionel Luthor, and be hated by everyone because of it. 

They didn't know. 

That's why everyone assumed that they could not trust me. Because I must be just like my father. They assumed that I would deceive and betray everyone, as my father had done to so many, because that was the way I was taught, and therefore, it must be the only way that I know. 

Little did they know that the thought I hated more than anything else in the world was the possibility that I _could_ become my father. That I hated my father as much as any of them did, if not more. If only they knew that I would do anything, absolutely _anything_ , in my power to keep that from happening. I did not want to take the same horrible path that my father had taken, the one that he had paved for me to be the next to take. 

They didn't know of the countless hours of my childhood spent naively wishing and hoping and praying to a higher power that doesn't exist that there would be just one person that could learn to look past my last name and get to know me for who I am, who I want to be. After awhile, when the person did not come, I stopped praying because I realized that either God wasn't listening, or he just didn't care. Maybe He hated the Luthors as well. 

But finally, that person _did_ come, years after I had given up hope and stopped wishing. If I still believed in a God, I would believe that nothing less than that could have created Clark. But I knew that he couldn't have been heaven-sent, for I could think of no reason why my life deserved to be saved. And I hoped that he couldn't have been sent from God, because I hoped that no God would wait until my scars ran so deep that I doubted that they could ever be healed. 

Which makes it stupid for people to think that just because I don't display my feelings freely, I don't have any emotions at all. That's why most people feel comfortable treating me the way that they do. They don't think that I feel the same way they do because I am rich and untouchable. That makes it easier for them to hate me, when they think that it can't hurt me. 

I do think sometimes that I have forgotten what some emotions feel like, however. I think I've forgotten what happiness is. It's true that I am not always depressed, and I sometimes even have days that are better than most, but I've nearly forgotten what it feels like to be truly and completely happy. 

Which is why I find it extremely ironic that my father thinks that I am _too_ emotional. He thinks that I let my emotions control me, while the rest of the world thinks that that can't be true because I have no emotions. I think that it is quite possible that my father is right, however. My emotions so often influence my actions. 

And then there is the assumption that seems the most trivial, yet some people could find it the most important - if they ever took the time to realize how wrong their assumptions were. This is the assumption that I wear long-sleeved shirts because they are what look the most professional. That is partly true, but I shudder to think of what the world would think if they knew the real reason. If they knew that it is not just my emotional scars that I have to hide, but my physical ones as well. 

No one would assume any of these things if they knew that I had once tried to kill myself. If they knew that when I was still a fragile teenager, I had had one of the worst fights ever with my father. If they knew that I had gotten high on more drugs than wise and had broken a mirror in my rage. If they knew that I had then taken my rage out on myself by finding a rather sharp piece of the broken mirror to slit my wrists with. 

Between the overdoses and the blood loss, I had been in the hospital for two weeks. And my father did not even visit me once, or send flowers, or acknowledge that he cared at all. 

Seven years after that "incident" as I have begun to think of it, I can finally think back on the experience without an intense emotional reaction, but it still hurts and things are still horrible at times and I am still not entirely happy. I don't know if I ever will be again. But I can still hide my scars, both the emotional and the physical ones. 

* * *

Tired after a long day at work, I had positioned myself in one of the many couches that adorned the Luthor castle, some soft music that I didn't remember putting on coming out of the speaker system that seemed present in nearly every room in the house. My head was casually resting on the top edge of the couch, my dress shirt all unbuttoned at the top, as well as the cuffs, and my shoes unceremoniously discarded across the room. A glass of brandy sat in my hand, each silent burn of alcohol down my throat welcome to my exhausted body. 

I closed my eyes, almost tired enough to fall asleep right there. The quite melody of the music was further lulling me into slumber. But before sleep could overtake me, I was startled back into wakefulness by an uncertain voice from the doorway. "Lex?" the voice questioned. 

My head shot up quickly, immediately wary of the uninvited visitor, but it was only Clark standing in the doorway, looking slightly guilty for having disturbed me. The slightest smile curled onto my lips upon spotting him. His simple presence could always do that to me. 

"How long have you been standing there?" I asked him. 

"A few minutes," Clark admitted. "At first, I thought you were asleep, and you looked so peaceful for once in your life. I didn't really want to ruin that." 

I shot Clark a little smile to tell him that it was okay. Clark's glowing, radiant smile was my answer, and it filled my body with a warmth that the drafty old castle failed to give me. I shifted my body up a little more when Clark took a seat on the couch next to me, so we were at the same eye level. The sudden shift of weight caused the brandy in my glass to rock a little, but I thankfully did not spill any of it. 

"So, hard day at work?" Clark asked, taking in my appearance from my sock-clad feet to my loosely buttoned shirt. 

"If there has been a bigger understatement ever made, Clark, then I have yet to hear it," I said, a yawn nearly escaping my throat. Noticing my tiredness, Clark gave me a sympathetic smile and a little shrug. 

I took another sip of brandy and Clark's eyes suddenly widened and his whole expression changed. I brought the glass down from my lips, unsure of what had sparked Clark's sudden mood change. After a few seconds, Clark lightly wrapped his hands around my hand that was holding the glass of brandy and eased it out of my hand, placing it on the end table next to the couch. I looked at the raven-haired teen curiously, unsure of what he was doing. 

Just as softly, he took the same hand and turned my palm so that it faced the ceiling. The unbuttoned cuff fell outward, revealing a raised, pinkish scar on my wrist, and I finally understood Clark's strange reaction. I hadn't even thought to conceal the scar the way I usually do, for the feelings that had created it were long forgotten, especially in Clark's presence. 

"Oh my God, Lex," Clark said quietly, taking the other arm in hand and finding a similar scar. He also seemed to notice a few other scars that were less evident, but still there. Clark wasn't stupid. He knew that those wounds were self-inflicted. 

I just sat there staring at Clark, fully awake now but unable to find my voice. I couldn't think of any words to say to him. He took his eyes off of the scars only long enough to glance up into my own bluish-gray eyes, as if hoping to find an answer there. 

Finally, Clark released one of my arms, but kept the other in his delicate grip. He ran his thumb gently over the most noticeable scar, the soft pad of his thumb a strange contrast to the rough scar tissue on my wrist. And then he spoke, his voice nearly a whisper, though I could hear it clearly. "When?" he asked simply, though we both knew he was referring to the scar that he was massaging. 

I fought to find my voice once again. "When I was fifteen," I replied at last. 

"Why?" 

"I had a fight with my father," I forced out, the memory of that part of my life still slightly painful to even think about. 

Clark made an angry little grunt as if to say `I knew this had something to do with your father.' His voice shook slightly at his next words. "A-and did - did you actually do this to try to - to...kill yourself?" 

I looked back at Clark, who looked so vulnerable and scared, everything he was thinking written all over his face. He was clearly scared that my answer would be yes. I could tell that to answer truthfully would be hurtful to him, but I could never find the ability to openly lie to Clark. 

"In the past, I've done things that I'm not proud of," I answered evasively. But Clark still seemed to see the undertones of that sentence. 

The next things that he did, however, were totally unexpected. He brought my wrist up and gently placed his lips to the raised red scar. The sensation it created was so strange, yet so _good_ , sending jolts of electricity up and down my body. I drew in my breath sharply. I had never had anybody take a part of my life that was so dark and regard it with such tenderness and caring. It surprised me that anyone could. 

Clark placed another kiss a little bit farther up the scar, this time letting his tongue flick lightly over the irregularities of my skin. It caused a strange type of wet friction with the uneven parts of his tongue. It sent a tiny shiver through my body, which Clark seemed to notice because he did it again. 

Once Clark reached the end of the scar, he pulled away and looked at me seriously. "I'm sorry that life had to be so hard for you, Lex," were his sincere words. 

I just nodded in acknowledgement, unable to think of a way to answer that - unable to think at all due to the fact that Clark's tongue had just been on my skin. Craving more, I pulled him toward me and caught his mouth in a kiss, which Clark returned eagerly and hungrily. I didn't care how wrong what we were doing was, because it felt so right. I knew that I wanted it, and I could tell that Clark wanted it too. 

And in that moment, I forgot why I had made the cuts, why I had ever been unhappy at all. Maybe Clark could save me from the darkness. And maybe the scars didn't run as deep as I thought they did. 


End file.
